


Of Knowledge and Trust

by EdnaV



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (in chapter 3), (in chapter 5), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Making an Effort (Good Omens), Minor Violence, Missing Scene, Post-Bus Ride (Good Omens), Quote: We're On Our Own Side (Good Omens), deadnaming, eventually everyone writes one of these I guess, the night between saturday and sunday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-07-29 11:02:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20081119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdnaV/pseuds/EdnaV
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley get to fully know each other, after 6000 years.And then they fight Heaven and Hell, and win —with style.It's just a matter of knowing and trusting each other.





	1. A Room

**Author's Note:**

> I was thinking about of the role of trust in Aziraphale's and Crowley's relationship, and how it parallels the 6000 years in which they slowly get to know each other. 
> 
> So, the “knowledge” is not _only_ in the biblical sense of _sex_. But that too, eventually.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “They know,” he says. “Gabriel knows about the Arrangement.”
> 
> “Yes,” says Crowley, tersely. “And judging by the chumminess between Beelzebub and Gabriel, my lot knows too.”
> 
> _“They're going to destroy you,_” cries Aziraphale.
> 
> Crowley shrugs. “I've lost count of how many times you've said those words, angel. I'm still here.” Then he casually adds, “Sorry about the mess. The bucket was for Ligur — I used that holy water. I got him. Unfortunately Hastur is still around, the bastard. Glass of scotch?” 
> 
> \----
> 
> Spoiler: they never get to drink that scotch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited after [@Runawaymarbles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Runawaymarbles) agreed to be my beta!

They're finally in Crowley's flat. It’s the first time: they've always met in public places, or in the bookshop. 

They close the front door behind them. They haven't said a word since they got on that bus. Now Aziraphale breaks the silence. 

“They know,” he says. “Gabriel knows about the Arrangement.”

“Yes,” says Crowley, tersely. “And judging by the chumminess between Beelzebub and Gabriel, my lot knows too.”

_“They're going to destroy you,_” cries Aziraphale.

Crowley shrugs. “I've lost count of how many times you've said those words, angel. I'm still here.” Then he casually adds, “Sorry about the mess. The bucket was for Ligur — I used that holy water. I got him. Unfortunately Hastur is still around, the bastard. Glass of scotch?” 

Aziraphale feels as if someone punched him in the stomach. It's worse than when Sandalphon did it. This one's his own fault. 

1862\. Crowley had told him that the Holy Water was “for insurance”. He had refused to give it to him anyway. He knew that Hell was ruthless, but he didn't really want to face how much it was. He couldn't actually fathom the idea of running for your life _from _your own_ side_. 

_We're on our own side_, he remembers.

He tries to breathe. Not that he needs to, but it usually helps him to calm down. 

They're in the study now. 

Aziraphale looks around. So many sharp edges: the table, the big tv screen. Only one chair — that golden throne. He wonders if it's actually comfortable to sit in there. He doubts it. 

Crowley's voice interrupts his thoughts. “As I said, sorry for the mess. Now, about that scotch...” Then he stares at Aziraphale. “You okay, angel?” 

The angel doesn't reply. He's studying the room. Taking in every detail.

The bucket. _Good Lord_. The table, the chair, the tv screen. The vase on the stand. On the floor, a globe. The pages torn from an astronomy book are scattered everywhere.

_I'm going away, angel._

_Alpha Centauri._

That punch in the stomach, again.

Then he sees the lectern. 

Then he doesn't see anything anymore. He feels Crowley's arms: holding him, keeping him from falling on the floor. Aziraphale stumbles. He feels the edge of the table behind him. He leans on it, but he doesn't let go of Crowley.

“I'm sorry.” That's all he manages to say for a while. “I'm sorry, please, forgive me... I wanted to be a good angel. I wanted to protect you. I don't know which one it was, I just know that I lied to myself — and, even worse, to you — and I could not protect you, in the end... _can you forgive me?_” he sobs, and he's not pouting, like all those times he asked Crowley for a small miracle to make his life a bit more pleasant. He's begging.

“Angel.” Crowley's fingers have miracled a handkerchief. He's trying to wipe the tears that are flooding from Aziraphale's eyes. “You told me that you can forgive _a demon_. There's nothing to forgive to an _angel_ like you. You did give me that Holy Water, anyway, and I swear to you — that night in my Bentley, you were afraid for me, not for you.” He's holding Aziraphale a bit tighter, now. They're gently swaying; the angel's head is resting on the demon's chest. “As if you've actually cared for the notes from your fucking Head Office,” adds Crowley, very softly, almost to himself. He knows what he really wants to say, but he's afraid — it feels like a little Apocalypse. He tries to sound casual and cheerful, and he says it anyway. “So, would you like that scotch? A kiss? It's not like I've spent the last sixty centuries pining for it, but...”

“Oh. Yes. Yes, please,” answers Aziraphale, almost pleading.

“The scotch? Or...?”

It's Aziraphale who kisses him. Who clings to him. Crowley reciprocates — he _did_ spend the last sixty centuries pining for this kiss, after all. For a moment, it feels like they might tumble on the floor. They end up sprawling on the table.

Aziraphale wonders if Crowley has stopped time, once again; then he's too busy keeping him in his arms, not letting go, feeling his lips, his arms, now caressing his cheeks, running his fingers through those beautiful ginger hair, trying to be as close as they could ever be, without hiding, throwing six thousand years of fear to the wind and replacing them with the pure and simple desire to be what he was meant to be — what _they_ were meant to be: together.

Crowley is overwhelmed by the surprise — the thought _he's a bit of a bastard, the angel_, flashes through his mind — and then it's just Aziraphale and his joy that matter — their joy, together. He feels lost and yet finally at home.

Eventually, they break away from each other. Not much: just enough for Crowley to smile, blink — once — then stare longingly into Aziraphale's eyes and point out that his bed would be much more comfortable. They get up, their gazes still intertwined. 

“Let's not hide anymore,” says Crowley. “We saved the world, against Heaven and Hell.” 

_Against Heaven and Hell._

Suddenly, Aziraphale remembers Gabriel's icy stare and even colder voice: _“At least we know whose fault it is.”_ He's overwhelmed by terror. He has to protect Crowley.

“They know,” he says

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Crowley finds out a few things about Aziraphale, a lot of flashbacks (because I'll never get over episode 3), and a cameo by the plants and that statue.


	2. A Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Aziraphale hesitates for a moment. He finally understands Agnes Nutter's last prophecy, and it terrifies him. _Playing with fyre._ “They're going to take their revenge.” _Choofe your faces. Faces. A plural._ “On both of us.”_
> 
> _It's the last sentence that hits the mark._
> 
> \---
> 
> Aziraphale and Crowley plan their escape from Heaven and Hell.
> 
> Also, Crowley realises something about Aziraphale and the past 6000 years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter is quite fluff & angst. With a bit of flashback, because _of course_. I hope you'll like it.
> 
> Reposted with edit after [RunawayMarbles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Runawaymarbles) agreed to be my beta. (Thank you, thank you, thank you.)

“They know.”

“I know they know,” sighs Crowley. “And they know we know they know. And we know they know... you know. We've been very much into knowing, in the last three days. Even too much, I believe, and I'm the one who got booted from Heaven for asking too many questions.”

He tries to laugh, but Aziraphale's stares at him.

“Crowley, stop. This is no laughing matter. _They know_, and they...” Aziraphale hesitates for a moment. He finally understands Agnes Nutter's last prophecy, and it terrifies him. _Playing with fyre._ “They're going to take their revenge.” _Choofe your faces. Faces. A plural._ “On both of us.” 

It's the last sentence that hits the mark.

“You're the expert on prophecies, angel. What do we do? What do I have to do?” he asks. He tries to sound calm. He's not.

But Aziraphale is calm, now. It's true: he knows a lot about prophecies. He's always been fascinated by how much human beings are afraid of that same free will for which he yearned; by how much they wanted to know and how little they trusted themselves.

He draws a deep breath, stands up straight, fixes his bowtie. “Well. I suppose that _fyre_ means _Hellfire_. That would be for me. I was the one who caught that fragment; this further supports the thesis. The issue of what Hell will try to do to you still open...”

Crowley cuts in. “Holy Water. They're not very creative. They'll just copy your Head Office.”

“So, this solves the problem, in a quite simple and — dare I say — elegant way: I'm going in your place,” says Aziraphale, as if he were stating the most trivial fact. Crowley has spent centuries saving him. It's time to repay the debt. It is simple, after all.

“You're _most definitely not going to Hell_,” shouts Crowley. “Especially not on a wild guess. Even if they manage to get their hands on some Holy Water, we don't know what they're going to do to you _before_. Actually, I have a fairly good idea of what they could do, and you don't want to...”

“I do. Trust me,” says Aziraphale.

“You'd have to pass for me. Angel, you're not a good actor. You went to Paris during the Reign of Terror dressed like Beau Brummell.”

“Trust me.”

“They'd see right through your act.”

“Trust me,” repeats Aziraphale. “How long have I been in love with you?”

Crowley is at a loss. “What do you mean?” he asks.

“I mean: can you tell me how long I have been in love with you?”

“You're saying... that... you're... in love... with me,” stammers Crowley.

“Of course,” replies Aziraphale. “I thought I just made it clear a few minutes ago, and on this very table, my dear.” He sounds a bit hurt, but also a bit smug — just a bit: he sounds like someone who's waiting for his best friend to open his birthday present. “Now, let's see: I realised that I was in love with you when you saved my books in that church — you should know which one, you stole the lectern. I knew that you did love me back in your car, while you were taking me back to the bookshop. Eventually, I've come to believe that we've both been in love with each other since we met on the Wall. Give or take a few minutes. So, do you still think I can't keep a secret?”

Crowley stares at him. It sounds as if the angel knows everything about him since the beginning of time. That he had observed him, guarded over him as he had guarded over Eden. That his soft clumsiness was just the best sleight-of-hand since the Universe was created.

_Why did you show him all the kingdoms of the world?_

He had asked in earnest. He hadn't assumed that it was for something evil. It sounds a lot like _I trust you._

_Let me tempt you to some oysters._

He joked about temptation with him, a demon. It sounds a lot like _You can trust me._

_What is foment, some kind of porridge?_

It sounds a lot like _In this place, we've got more in common with each other than with our remote allies._

Crowley realises that his angel had asked for so many small miracles — to make Hamlet a success, to have some _scrumptious_ food, to clean his ridiculous old coat — because he couldn't hope in the real one: freedom to love him.

_I'm not handing you a suicide pill!_

It sounds a lot like _I have to protect you._

_You go too fast for me._

It sounds a lot like _Help me, I can't protect you._

_Can you forgive me?_

It sounds a lot like _I know that you've always protected me._

_You stole the lectern._

It really sounds like _I love you, please tell me that you love me too._

“I trust you,” he says. “And you're right,” he blurts out, “it's been since you gave away your sword.” Then, smiling and yet in a tone that admits no reply, he adds, “But if you're going to Hell in my place, I'm going to enjoy some nice, warm Hellfire, and make those Heavenly Wankers think you're untouchable. Which you are, of course, as long as I'm around. Now don't say a word, because you know it's the only way we can get out of this mess. Both our sides are coming for both of us. We have to do it together. We...”

“...are _on our own side_,” finishes Aziraphale. “For better and for worse, as human couples say. And considering that you'll have to wear my ring...” He almost smiles, but his voice is graver than Crowley has ever heard it. He's clasping his hands, as he often does. “I pray that they won't hurt you. I pray that She will protect you, in Her Plan.”

Suddenly, Crowley feels dizzy. “You still trust... Her.”

“She led us to be together,” replies Aziraphale, very quietly. “Do you need anything more?”

Crowley can't find anything a good reply. It doesn't matter.

They're back in each other's arms. They kiss, once more. They're in the corridor, now. Aziraphale murmurs something about the beautiful plants. He almost stops to caress a leaf, never letting go of Crowley's hand. The demon feels a pang of guilt about his gardening methods and picks up the pace; Aziraphale follows him. Crowley leads the angel further down the corridor. He hopes against hope that the statue will pass unnoticed. It doesn't. But Aziraphale's laughter is sheer love: not a trace of mocking, just his joy of seeing yet another side of Crowley.

Crowley opens the door on the left for Aziraphale, then follows suit.

They're in the bedroom.

“I trust you,” says Crowley.

“I trust you too,” says Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Beau Brummell was the Original Regency Dandy. My headcanon is that he was trying to dress like Aziraphale, not the other way round.
> 
> 2) Next chapter: what happens in that bedroom. (I was bound to write it, right?)


	3. A Union

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You're wondering if I remember what it was like _before_, if I felt like this,” replies Crowley, as if he had heard all that unspoken question and then something more. He sighs. “Well, it's hazy. But it feels like this is all that I ever wanted — being with you.”_
> 
> _“I believe that's all I want too,” says Aziraphale._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here's the chapter where the "knowledge in the Biblical sense" happens. 
> 
> Infinite thanks to my beta [@RunawayMarbles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Runawaymarbles)...

“I trust you,” says Crowley.

“I trust you too,” says Aziraphale.

The angel can barely remember the last time he felt this peace. It was in Her Presence, when She was still talking directly to Her creatures. He wonders if a demon remembers what it was like. He feels bold enough to ask.

“Dearest...”

“You're wondering if I remember what it was like _ before_, if I felt like this,” replies Crowley, as if he had heard all that unspoken question and then something more. He sighs. “Well, it's hazy. But it feels like this is all that I ever wanted — being with you.”

“I believe that's all I want too,” says Aziraphale.

Crowley laughs. “_Believe?_ That's a sacred word, coming from you. You should know...”

Suddenly, they realise that they’re naked. They’re not exactly sure of how they managed to miracle their clothes away without even thinking about it. They’re a bit taken aback, but it’s the sweetest surprise.

They look at each other as if it were the first time. It is, somehow.

Over the course of millennia, Aziraphale has come to know the precise rhythm of Crowley's walk, how he moves his arms to counterbalance his long legs. It's so graceful, in its carelessness. He never knew something that he's seeing right now. It’s something _ ineffable_: there isn’t a word for it in all the books of the world. But in this moment Aziraphale doesn’t care about words, or books, or even the world. He's looking at something far more graceful. Now he knows Crowley, completely.

Crowley has learned all the ways in which Aziraphale's nose twitches whenever he looks around. So sweet, and so helpless — that's what he always thought. He's learning something new. It's frightening, like a question whose answer could change the universe. He's never been afraid of asking questions before. But he trusts that Aziraphale will have the answer. He knows Aziraphale.

It doesn't take long to happen. A human being would barely have the time to take a breath. It will last from this day forward.

Angels are sexless unless they make an effort.

But Aziraphale has spent the last six millennia trying to love Crowley without falling in love. Compared to that, what happens does not require much of an effort — no more than setting the table before a delicious dinner.

And Crowley has spent the last six millennia trying not to love Aziraphale with every atom of his being. What happens does not require any effort at all.

It's perfect.

Or maybe not. Maybe it's not so perfect that time when Crowley bites the headboard instead of Aziraphale's ear. (_Not my fault, angel, you're too yummy._) (_So are you, my dear. Scrumptious._) (_Shut up._) Or that time when Aziraphale turns a bit too suddenly and Crowley almost falls from the bed. (_Oh, sorry, my dearest, come here, we can go on._) (_Yes... please?_)

It might be perfect when Aziraphale closes his eyes, because even for an angel who used to guard the Gate of Eden all of this is a bit too intense (_Oh, my love_), and Crowley closes his eyes, because he still can't believe this is happening (_I love you, Aziraphale_) (_Crowley, I love you_).

It's definitely not perfect that they held each other desperately tight, and they've scratched each other's back. (_Sorry, angel._) (_Sorry, my dear._) (They say it at the same time.)

So, maybe it's not perfect. It's much more that that. It's human.

Eventually, they realise that time hasn't stopped. It's almost dawn.

“We should... swap.”

“Yes.”

Their hands touch. That's all it takes.

They're in each other's body. It feels a bit odd. But it feels like their own body too. It is, somehow. They do know each other.

“Now listen, angel. You _ have _ to try sleeping. It's the best…”

“Now listen, my dear. _ We _ have to plan.”

“Fine.”

They lay out a few details: Aziraphale will rest a while in the flat, because Crowley won't budge on that; Crowley will check the bookshop; they will meet in St James's Park at one; if anything happens, they'll look for each other in Tavistock Square. They say “if”. They don't say “_ when _ something happens”: they know it will, and just the thought terrifies them as much as knowing each other had made them feel at peace. The idea of losing each other — that doesn't bear thinking about.

“Trust me. She will take care of... It will be fine,” repeats Aziraphale.

“Just try to sleep. You are going to love it,” says Crowley. “Now take this — it's my favourite pillow.”

Aziraphale grabs the pillow. He doesn't put it under his head — he hugs it. He smiles, then he falls asleep.

Crowley stays awake. He's never watched himself while he was sleeping. He wonders if Aziraphale always snores. He hopes to find out soon. He tries not to worry — as if it were possible. He mists his plants, muttering under his breath, “you'd better behave.” The plants feel different. They're no longer afraid — they're _ loved _ . All it took was a caress. _ A bit of a bastard indeed, the angel _, he thinks, smiling so much that it looks like he's grinning. He leaves the flat and walks all the way to Soho.

When Aziraphale wakes up, it's almost noon. There's a cup of tea on the bedside table. It's still warm, by some demonic miracle. _ Crowley is such a nice person_, he thinks. No, not _ nice_. Crowley is _ a good person_. It's different. It's the difference between telling your descendant to avert the Apocalypse and kicking War in the shins to help your friends.

_ Well, I suppose it's time to go. _ Aziraphale ponders what Crowley would wear. _ The usual, I guess. _ But the red collar on his jacket is a bit too... _ how do they say? tacky_. Yes, that's the word. And if they're going to douse him with Holy Water, he should wear something suitable. With his usual thoroughness, he chooses his new clothes accordingly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) This chapter was written under the influence of @PlaidAdder's beautiful meta [The Split Subject](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20031022). 
> 
> 2) Next chapter: their plan is set in motion.


	4. A Separation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They meet at the ice cream cart. Crowley sighs. _We're running for our lives, and he wants something to nibble. I hope they're not watching.__
> 
> It's a Sunday afternoon, but Aziraphale and Crowley won't be lazying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter for a relatively short scene that I love.
> 
> Once again, thanks to my beta @RunawayMarbles!

At 1pm, in St James's Park.

So far, their plan is working. They only have to trust that they both will survive.

Aziraphale asks his taxi to drop him off at the Guards Museum.

Crowley is already by the lake.

They could recognise each other anywhere, in any body, be it a Knight of the Round Table or an Edwardian nanny.

The usual bench is taken by a British gentleman with an unmistakable kind of briefcase, and his Russian counterpart, who's devouring a sandwich.

They meet at the ice cream cart. Crowley sighs. _We're running for our lives, and he wants something to nibble_. _I hope they're not watching_.

“A strawberry lolly and a vanilla with a flake, please.”

Aziraphale is enjoying Crowley's body. The joints are so flexible. The flashy clothes makes him feel as if he can fight Heaven and Hell, win, and do it _with style_ — which is what they're actually doing. He_ knows _that they will win. He will save Crowley — he believes it, almost as much as he believes in Her Ineffable Plan.

It's been a long time since Aziraphale has really thought of himself as a Principality. Gabriel and the others almost managed to convince him that he was just a soft and useless oddity, a soul almost lost in books and sushi dinners, neither of Heaven nor of Earth. But now it's in every fibre of his being: he is a Principality. He is an angel tasked with protecting. His love has nothing to fear. They will be safe — or at least Crowley will, and that's all that matters.

_ I definitely hope they're not watching_, thinks Crowley. He sees his body as if he were looking in a mirror, but everything inside him screams _that's Aziraphale_. The way his hand hangs down while he leans on the cart. Actually, just the way he leans on the cart could give them away. That word — _please_. And who the Heaven would tell the world that he's fond of strawberry lollies? _He must have rummaged in the freezer, back at home. Back at home — I want to go back. I don't want to lose what we found last night._

He pulls himself together. He tries to focus.

He needs to be strong. Or at least to look strong — he has to impersonate a _Principality_ who strolled around the Garden of Eden with a _fucking_ flaming sword, and who was tough enough to give it away without batting an eyelid. Well, probably batting his eyelids many times, because that's Aziraphale. _I must remember to blink often, look around, smile as if I were perpetually apologising to the Heavenly Assholes_.

“How is the car?” he asks, casually.

“Not a scratch on it. How's the bookshop?”

“Not a smudge.” He decides to leave the news of the _Just William_ sequels for another time. “Not a book burned,” he says. Technically, it's true. “Everything back just the way it was.”

Technically, that's not true. Definitely not true. Actually false. _The way it was_ — that was Crowley begging for Aziraphale's love while pretending to be a demon bent on sin and destruction, and Aziraphale wishing for Heaven's approval while pretending that everything he wanted was a slightly embarrassing_ Arrangement _with Crowley. Now they're together, and all their pretending won't save them.

Aziraphale hands him the ice cream. He's smiling. _For Hell's sake._

Crowley checks their surroundings. He feels as if even the ducks aren't above suspicion.

“Have you heard from your people yet?” he inquires.

Aziraphale shakes his head. “Yours?”

“Nothing.”

While Crowley worries about the ducks, Aziraphale just wishes he had his books. There is so much that he wants to study. Did the recent exertions have some fallout on the nature of reality? He argued against Gabriel's war by invoking Her Ineffable Plan: was that a form of blasphemy? Both Crowley and himself are still of angelic stock — the night before made it quite clear, and very pleasantly so. Does that mean that She approves of their actions? There isn't any point in asking too many questions: Her plan is, and always has been, and always will be, Ineffable. Yet his mind is full of questions. He wonders whether this curiosity comes from Crowley's body.

_ Maybe Crowley knows the answer._

“Do you understand what happened yesterday?” he asks.

“Well, I understand some of it. But some of it...”

Something feels amiss. Aziraphale looks around. He sees HIM.

Death.

“INEFFABLE,” he's saying.

He turns towards Crowley, but it's too late.

Crowley doesn't realise what's happening until they gag him.

Then he feels that his hands are tied. Aziraphale didn't see him, and nobody's laid a finger on him — yet. While the angels drag him away, all his terrors arise again, stronger than ever._ Aziraphale. Don't follow me. Save yourself. I'll take the fall, I've already taken the Big One._

But Aziraphale runs after Crowley. He can't bear the sight of what they're doing to him. He said he would protect him. That's all he can think: _don't let him take to Heaven, there isn't any mercy left there._

Crowley notices three tourists who seem to have just come out of the ground. _Shit_. The angels slam him in the van. _Too late._

Aziraphale can't stop. _Just a few metres, I'll be with him. I can fight them. I can save him. Just let me get my hands on Sandalphon, I'm going to show him.._.

Then the crowbar hits him, and he all he sees is pitch black.

There's nothing they can do but trust each other and their plan, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Aziraphale is in Hell, Crowley is in Heaven.


	5. An Execution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is in Hell. 
> 
> Crowley is in Heaven. 
> 
> They fight for each other's life — it's their own life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my wonderful beta @RunawayMarbles.

Everything is dark.

The floor is cold.

An almost-unbearable not-too-loud-but-definitely-not-low noise is buzzing in his ears. 

His hands are tied. The rope is biting into his wrists.

His knees hurt - maybe from when he fell in St James's Park, maybe because they dragged him down here. The head — that hurts too. 

He's coming back to his senses, and he only wishes that he could slip back into oblivion.

Aziraphale is in Hell. 

He finally knows what it means: to be denied any relief, any hope. To be denied Her Presence, Her Grace. He thinks of what Crowley said at the bandstand: _ Unforgivable, that's what I am _. That's what this place means: cold, lonely, Eternal Damnation, painful just enough to know that the comfort of complete annihilation will never come. 

How could She tell Crowley that he belonged in this place? He feels a pang of guilt: he did that too, every time he reminded him of his demonic nature. Aziraphale thinks that maybe he deserves to be here. Maybe Crowley was right: nobody ever escapes this place. Not even a Principality. Assuming that he's a Principality and not just another Fallen Angel.

He's never been more terrified. But he has to be lucid. _ The plan _ , he thinks. _ If I fail, I will drag down Crowley with me. _

_ Crowley. _

That's everything that matters — and that's the only hope. He must become Crowley. Dashing, brilliant Crowley. The bravest person he knows, fighting against all the demons of Hell. 

They've been one, last night. 

_ I can do it _, he thinks. 

He opens his eyes, stretches his neck, starts to get up from the floor. _ Look magnificent, proud of each and every atom in you. _

“Hey, guys. Any problem? You could have left a message on the ansaphone,” he says.

* * *

The light is blinding. 

The air is cold but still. It's the pretend-perfect-to-the-point-of-being-annoying weather of an office where everyone dresses like a City Boy.

He could hear voices — people passed _ by chance _ while they were marching him through the corridors. Gossip is a sin, but this show is just too good to miss. 

They've removed his blindfold. It was just to humiliate him — as if he didn't know where they are. 

He's tied to a quite uncomfortable design chair. He thoroughly regrets inventing design chairs.

His eyes are adjusting to the light. 

Crowley is in Heaven. He doesn't like it one bit.

He's spent the past six millennia complaining about his Fall, but now here it feels like Downstairs, only with a much better view and a few more lies. He understands why Aziraphale loves the world so much. Every time he savoured a good dinner, every time he filled his nostrils with the smell of a Wilde first edition, every time he miracled two tickets for _ The Fairy Queen _ at Glyndebourne, he was rebelling against this smug efficiency. 

Crowley has always fancied himself the rebel. But every day, behind an affectation of softness, his angel was fighting for his dignity against everything and everyone. _ I should have seen it _ . The Archangels always treated him like a useless idiot, but Aziraphale is strong, defiant, and everyting but stupid. _ Except for loving me _, thinks Crowley, repressing a smile.

He feels Aziraphale's ring on his finger. A reminder of what's worth fighting for. A reminder of what's at stake.

_ Aziraphale. _

The plan has to succeed. He must become Aziraphale. Sweet, brave Aziraphale. So brave that he can allow himself to be soft, while all these Archangels need a war to prove they're the best. 

So brave that he let himself be one with a demon. 

_ He trusts me _, he thinks.

_ I'm not worthy of it _ , he also thinks. _ But let's go get the bastards _.

He looks at the Archangels and he timidly bats his eyelids. 

* * *

Aziraphale walks down a corridor. His hands are still tied so tight that he has to slouch a bit. Behind him, two low-ranking demons make sure that he doesn't try to escape.

He has no intention to escape. He will carry on the plan, come what may. Although Crowley had a point: what's coming might be worse than their worst nightmares. The Holy Water was a wild guess, a crazy bet: who could have Holy Water in Hell? He focuses on the plan. _ Be Crowley. Proud and bold; even reckless. They'll never destroy you, because you've got style. _

He hears a voice. “Bring in the traitor,” it says.

They lead him to a room. At least the lights here don't flicker continuously. 

Beelzebub is slouching on a throne. On his right, Dagon is beaming with joy, or at least with what passes with joy in this place. On his left, Hastur stands and looks at him with pure hatred. 

_ Crowley would make fun of them, annihilate them with a quip. _

“Hey guys. Nice place you've got here.” 

“Not for you, it won't be,” interrupts him Hastur. _ So, it's poker. Let's raise. _

“Could do with some houseplants. Maybe a coffee table.”

“Silence! The prisoner shall approach,” orders Beelzebub. 

_ Show them you're not afraid. _

“Love to.” Aziraphale is terrified. He goes on. He must dominate the room, like Crowley would. “So, the four of us. Rubber of bridge? Barbershop quartet?” _ The latter was quite funny_, he thinks.

Beelzebub brings him back to reality. “The trial of a traitor?”

_ Act silly. Crowley is amazing when he does that. _

“Lord Beelzebub, you are...?”

“I'm the judge.” 

_ He's exasperated. Good. _

But Hastur isn't intimidated in the slightest. “And I am the prosecutor.” 

“And so... Dagon here is defending me?” 

Aziraphale almost hopes for — even he doesn't know what: justice? Fairness?

“I'm afraid not. I'm just here in case there's anything you've done that they forgot.” 

_ Of course. _

“We built this place for you specially,” Beelzebub explains, relentless. “It shall be your place of trial, and it shall be your place of destruction.” 

Aziraphale hangs on by a thread. Still, he keeps on trying. 

“Guys, you shouldn't have gone to all the trouble. What appears to be the problem?”

* * *

Crowley hears someone approaching. A voice that fakes cordiality and feels just like contempt. Gabriel.

“Aziraphale! So glad you could join us!”

“You could have just sent a message,” replies Crowley. But then he thinks, _ No, idiot. Aziraphale wouldn't be ironic. He would just feel sad. Be shy. And don't glare. _ “I mean... a kidnapping in broad daylight?” 

_ That's good. Aziraphale would feel bad even for them. He'd try to convince them to see the errors of their way. _

“Call it what it was: an _ extraordinary rendition _,” says Gabriel with a chuckle.

_ They gave me a commendation when they thought I had invented that phrase. This Archangel is worse than a human being at its worst. _

Uriel tells Gabriel something about their new associate. 

“I hope you like it,” he says to Crowley. “I really do.” His smugness grows more insufferable with every second. “And I bet you didn't see this one coming.”

Crowley tries to replicate Aziraphale's sweet, bashful smile, but he feels as if he'd already triumphed. _ An associate. Someone not from here. So, from my lot. So, Hellfire, just like the angel predicted. Just wait for it. _

He tries to look surprised by the arrival of the Messenger Demon whose name he always forgets. He probably fails. His snake nature can't help enjoying the warmth of the fire. 

* * *

The show trial in Hell follows the script of its equivalents on Earth. A list of crimes, half of which are completely made up (_ refusing to tempt _ Mr “Lord Byron” _ ? Dear Lord, I remember that one: it's not like Crowley refused to do the job, he simply noticed that George didn't need to be tempted by anyone else _), and half of which make Aziraphale proud of being on Crowley's side. 

“Creatures of Hell, you have heard the evidence against the demon known as Crowley, what is your verdict?” 

_ The demon _ known as _ Crowley? _ That hurts more than the chanting that proclaims him “guilty.” Aziraphale is really glad that his own beloved demon isn't here. Crowley has spent twenty centuries wondering how to change his name, and he's proud of every bit of it, from his surname that doesn't hide his past to that wonderful J (“for Juliet, because it reminds me of us, that day at the Globe”).

Beelzeub basks in his triumph. “Do you have anything to say before we take our vengeance on you?”

And here it comes, the moment of truth. The real verdict. Aziraphale can't stand it anymore. He asks, hoping they won't hear the panic in his voice. 

“What's it to be? An eternity in the deepest pit?”

Then Michael arrives. He's carrying a jar.

_ Holy Water. _

_ Crowley was right. _

Aziraphale should feel relieved. It's the one thing he can survive. The plan can actually work on his side too. 

But he's facing the worst fear that's haunted him for two centuries, or more. The idea of Crowley destroyed by Holy Water. The idea of a world without Crowley. 

And an Archangel is a willing and enthusiastic accomplice. He doesn't even tell Hastur to take a hike when the demon calls him _ wank-wings _. 

“Cooperation with our old enemies,” says Dagon.

Michael pours the Holy Water in the old tub. Aziraphale tells himself that he will survive it. But he's glad that his body doesn't need a heart to function. 

When Hastur casually destroys that tiny demon just to test the water, without betraying an emotion — actually, looking slightly bored, something inside Aziraphale breaks.

He understands where Crowley's silly recklessness comes from, why he always has the flashiest clothes, why he makes the best jokes and drives at 90 miles per hour in London. He understands why Crowley likes to sleep. Every moment he's awake, Crowley is terrified. Crowley is not just brilliant. Crowley is defiance personified, in the face of Hell itself.

So, when Beelzebub asks him for his last words, Aziraphale knows what to say.

“This is a new jacket, I'd hate to ruin it. Do you mind if I take it off?”

He takes off the rest of his clothes, for good measure. He's got that elegant underwear. He keeps on his socks. He slides in the bathtub trying to make as many waves as possible — _ come closer, I dare you. _

And then he laughs at them. He splashes water all around him. He makes faces.

He asks for a rubber duck.

When Michael comes back, he asks him to miracle a towel.

When he sees the fear and the horror on the Archangel's and the demons' faces, he knows that he's won. 

And he knows that Crowley has won, because the person who came up with the Arrangement, who found him in a church in the middle of the Blitz after seventy years of silence, who drove a Bentley in flames from London to Oxfordshire by sheer force of imagination — he can't fail. 

_ They won. _

* * *

Gabriel is not even talking to him. He's making a speech to an invisible audience. 

“So, with one act of treason, you averted the war.”

“Well, I think that the greater good...” Crowley tried to object.

“Don't talk to me about the Greater Good, sunshine. I'm the Archangel fucking Gabriel.”

_ How could Aziraphale stand these people? _

And then Crowley understands where Aziraphale learned to be brave: he learned it here. He learned it by defending himself from what he thought to be _ his side _ . His shyness and his courage were two sides of the same precious coin. _ They won't lay a finger on him, not anymore _, he thinks.

Uriel comes closer. She unties him, tells him to get up, and into the fire. 

_ What would Aziraphale do? _ Crowley thinks that he'd try to save the Archangels from themselves. Even in the face of Hellfire: that's Aziraphale, the Principality who gave away his flaming sword because Eve, the sinner, was feeling cold.

“I suppose... I can't persuade you to reconsider? We are meant to be the good guys, for Heaven's sake!”

Crowley remembers the last time he said those words: _ for Heaven's sake _. They were in Tadfield, and Aziraphale had just coined the phrase “lick some butt”. 

“Well, for Heaven's sake, we're meant to make examples out of traitors. So... into the flame.”

Crowley tries not to slip out of character. He cannot punch Gabriel. 

He walks towards the flame.

But he hesitates. He's Crowley, and yet his body is Aziraphale's. He's Crowley, yet last night he was Aziraphale as well. How can he be sure that the flame won't hurt him? Or, worse, that the flame won't hurt Aziraphale?

All he can do is to keep up the act. The sweet angel, timid and polite. _ And a bit of a bastard _, just that perfect bit. Enough to hint at the truth.

“Lovely knowing you all. May we meet on a better occasion.”

“Shut your stupid mouth, and die already,” says Gabriel.

Crowley almost forgets the plan. He hates Gabriel for what he's done to his angel. He hates Heaven as much as he hates Hell. 

He steps into the flame. It's warm. It's pleasant, even.

And he roars fire against the Archangel Fucking Gabriel and his yes-men.

They let him go. Of course they do. Cowards, like all bullies.

Now he only has to hope that Aziraphale's safe.

* * *

Aziraphale gets out of the bathtub. He dries himself with the towel, leaves it on the ground, making sure it's drenched in Holy Water. _ I wonder who's going to pick it up. They'll probably seal this room as soon as I leave. _ He slowly puts back on his clothes. He looks around, as much as the glasses allow him.

“So... bye, guys. I won't see you around.”

He smiles. 

Dagon accompanies him to the lift. They don't touch him. They try to keep up straight, as it's fit for a Duke of Hell, but they barely dare to look at the lowly _ demon known as Crowley _. 

* * *

Gabriel asks Sandalphon to show the former employee to the lift. Sandalphon insists that he's behind with some paperwork. Uriel sighs, and agrees to do it. She stares at him as the doors close.

* * *

They arrive in the lobby at the same time. They smile at each other as they exit the building.

“Well, _ that _ was playing with fire,” says Aziraphale under his breath.

“Let's not do it again, _ my dear _,” says Crowley.

They board the n.15 bus. They sit next to each other, holding hands. They don't need to say a word: they already know where they're going and why. 

Their beloved St. James's park is no longer a safe place. 

The bus travels through Bloomsbury.

They get off at Tavistock Square.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Aziraphale is in Hell" is a reference to Kieron Gillen's and Jamie McKelvie's comic The Wicked + The Divine. If you like stories of being a God as opposed to being human (bonus: set in London), you should love it.
> 
> The 2009 Glyndebourne production of Henry Purcell’s The Fairy Queen is one of the craziest and best things I've ever seen. You can probably find it on YouTube. (I've seen it in a cinema. I still haven't been able to miracle myself a ticket for Glyndebourne.)
> 
> "Not stupid. Except for loving me" is a reference to "And [she is] wise, but for loving me" from Much Ado About Nothing, Act 2 Scene 3. 
> 
> \----
> 
> Next Chapter! After 5 chapters, 1 epilogue.


	6. Epilogue — A Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The noise of the traffic in Tavistock Square is not infernal, but it's a good human approximation of a demon's work._
> 
> _But there's a garden, and in the garden there are a few benches. The garden is not as large as St. James's Park, but the trees do their best to dampen the noise of traffic, and they manage well enough to reduce it to a muffled hum. The benches are just as comfortable as the ones in the Royal Parks._
> 
> \----
> 
> Time to leave the garden: Aziraphale and Crowley survived, now they have the rest of their life. Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Repeating myself? Yes. But it's true: @RunawayMarbles has been an amazing beta. Thank you.

The noise of the traffic in Tavistock Square is not infernal, but it's a good human approximation of a demon's work.

But there's a garden, and in the garden there are a few benches. The garden is not as large as St. James's Park, but the trees do their best to dampen the noise of traffic, and they manage well enough to reduce it to a muffled hum. The benches are just as comfortable as the ones in the Royal Parks.

There are no ducks, but there are statues. Statues of people who fought for a better world. Of people who suffered. Of people who created beauty. And there are the living people who cut through the garden and for a few minutes aren't surrounded by the chaos of buses and cars; this makes their life — and often the lives of everyone around them — a bit better.

Right now, there are also Aziraphale and Crowley. They're sitting on a bench, still in each other's body, and with every minute they're less and less afraid of Heaven and Hell.

They spent the journey chattering about the places they were passing by.

Aziraphale recalled a pleasant evening when he had suggested Samuel Johnson to compile the Oxford English Dictionary. Crowley remembered fondly Dr. Johnson's cat’s habit of jumping on the lap of any guest who had the misfortune to be allergic to cats.  _ “And trust me, angel, it wasn't me, I doubt that even God can persuade a cat to do anything they don't want _ . _ ” _ Aziraphale had smiled: Crowley would never lie to him — and he had seen enough cats to share the demon's doubt on this particular matter.

They asked silly questions which are loaded with centuries in which their paths have crossed, but they've never been close enough.  _ “Have you ever tried the duck eggs that they serve in that pub?” “Not recently. Last time I was there, it was before the Great Fire.” _

They wondered about what they missed.  _ “Did you ever meet the Pankhursts, my dear?” “No, I thought that the humans were doing fine by themselves.” “I guess they did, eventually.” _

They dared to plan for the future, even.  _ “About that exhibition about Hiroshige at the British Museum...” “We're going, angel.” _

Now they're sitting in the garden, enjoying the sun as if it were shining just for the two of them. It isn't, but its rays are still warm and pleasant.

They're both thinking the same thing, but it's Crowley who says it first. He's still not completely over what happened — he wonders if he'll have to try to protect his angel forever. Not that he'd have it any other way.

“Do you think they'll leave us alone, now?”

“At a guess, they'll pretend they never happened.”

Crowley trusts Aziraphale's judgement. Completely. He knows that the angel — the Principality — will protect him.

Suddenly, he notices that his jacket's collar is not its usual bright red. It's  _ tartan _ .

_ Fine, I'll trust his judgement in everything but fashion. _

Aziraphale takes charge. “Fine. Anyone looking?” he asks.

Nobody is.

Crowley stops time.

Their hands touch, once again. It will be the last time it will be done in fear.

They are back in their old bodies.

Aziraphale cracks his neck and — as usual — tugs down his waistcoat.

Crowley thinks of the next time the two of them will be this close.  _ Maybe tonight. Definitely not here and now _ .

They let their old bodies guide them back to their old bickering, their almost-courtship that went on for millennia. The pain of keeping up a charade is gone; now there's just a habit that feels like a home.

“Tartan collar, really?”

“Tartan is  _ stylish _ !”

Then Aziraphale, beaming more than that time he had  _ almost _ impressed Houdini with the help of a penny and a handkerchief, gives a few details of what happened in Hell. How he asked for a rubber duck, and told Michael to miracle him a towel.

Crowley should be terrified at the thought of what could've gone wrong. But he just laughs: he trusts Aziraphale, nothing can go wrong.

They triumphed over Heaven and Hell. Or, at least, they won this battle.

They're creatures of this world: they know that nothing good can last forever, not unchanged.  _ That was the oppression of Heaven and Hell: the requirement of eternal and motionless perfection _ , realises Crowley. Things will change, here, for better or for worse — but he and Aziraphale will know their side, and fight for it.

Then Crowley sees something more: their side is more than the two of them. It's everyone in that square. Even the bus driver who has some choice words about a cyclist. It's every human being in Bloomsbury, in London, in Europe, in the world. He understands what the real sides are, and what is going to happen. He decides to share his intuition with his angel.

“If you ask me, both sides are going to use this as breathing space before the Big One.”

“I thought  _ that _ was the Big One,” says Aziraphale, a shadow of worry passing through his face.

Crowley's voice is grave, but he's smiling. “Nah. For my money, the really Big One is all of us, against all of them.”  _ And we're going to win that one too, because we're together _ , he thinks.  _ Or at least we're going to give them a fight like their limited imaginations could never dream of. _

“What? Heaven and Hell against... humanity?” says Aziraphale.

_ He's still hanging on to his faith. Well, he's an angel _ , thinks Crowley. _ We're one, it doesn't mean that we have to be a copy of each other. _

“Time to leave the garden,” he says, not without a hint of irony. But the sun is shining, and Aziraphale is there, and there's a whole world to enjoy. “Let me tempt you to a spot of lunch?” he asks, and the question is a little act of worship, both of his angel, and of the world they're going to share, love and protect.

Aziraphale smiles. He remembers a tavern in Rome, almost two millennia before. He remembers Crowley studying him from behind the dark lenses of his glasses. He knows that there's nothing to worry, as long as they're together. And anyway, he can finally enjoy the freedom from Gabriel notes complaining about his  _ frivolous miracles _ . He actually does one, there and then.

“Temptation accomplished. What about the Ritz?”

They walk together, their steps in perfect synchrony. Crowley is sauntering with his hands in the tiny pockets of his jeans. Aziraphale stands straight, his hands behind his back in a stance that's older than his coat.

Aziraphale mirrors Crowley, and Crowley mirrors Aziraphale. It couldn't be any other way, now that they fully know and trust each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> If you let me know what you think in the comments, you'll make me happy.


End file.
